Tobias and the Night Visitors
by Marguerite1
Summary: Post-ep for "Abu El Banat." Summary: "For decorations, see other doors."


TItle: Tobias and the Night Visitors   
Classification: Post-ep for "Abu El Banat."   
Spoilers: Mostly "Commencement" through "Abu ElBanat," along with smidgens from   
"Noel," "The Long Goodbye," and "Holy Night."  
  
  
***   
Tobias and the Night Visitors   
***  
  
  
With swift, decisive strokes of the marker, Toby wrote his message in the  
largest print the posterboard would permit. Surveying his handiwork, he nodded  
and replaced the cap with a satisfying click. Now all he needed was tape. He  
scrabbled around on his desk, frowning. His office was equipped with an  
excellent tape dispenser, weighted at the bottom so it wouldn't slide all over  
the place, but a lot of good that would do him if he couldn't find the damn  
thing.  
  
He stopped his search and shifted onto his left foot, leaning toward his door.  
"Ginger! I need tape!"  
  
She appeared moments later with a dispenser infinitely inferior to the one Toby  
knew good and well belonged to him. He took it, gave it a cursory examination,  
and put it back into her hand. "Where's mine?"  
  
"This isn't yours?"  
  
"This office has many dispensers, but I'm looking for mine. The good one, the  
black one with tungsten blades or something like that."  
  
Ginger shrank a little as she looked up at him. "You loaned it to Will. I think  
it may have been in his desk when the movers came."  
  
Toby huffed. "That's...something."  
  
"It's ironic."  
  
"Ironic. Yes, indeed." Toby glanced through the blinds at the empty office next  
door. "Merry Christmas, Will Bailey. This...contribution to the merriment of the  
West Wing is in your honor." He held the poster up with the letters facing  
Ginger and raised his eyebrows, waiting for a response.  
  
"You can't put that up," Ginger moaned.  
  
"And yet, watch as I do exactly that." Toby didn't even care if the thing was  
level, he just wanted to tape it to the door and be done. He waved at the  
dispenser and Ginger tore off a piece of tape.  
  
"I need four."  
  
"Toby..."  
  
"I was asked to put something up, something to indicate that the holiday season  
is indeed upon us." He took the tape from Ginger and applied it to each corner  
of the poster. "And I have done so with grace and humor."  
  
Ginger didn't look convinced. "If 'humor' is Yiddish for 'humbug,' then you  
might be on to something."  
  
"I think it's funny."  
  
"Okay, then. That's good enough for me," Ginger said warily, walking past Toby  
with a shake of her head. Her earrings, which were tiny bells, made a  
high-pitched tinkling sound.  
  
Toby patted down one corner of the tape as he admired his handiwork, a sign that  
said: "Season's Greetings. For decorations, please see other doors." He smiled,  
then turned around and saw Charlie shaking snow off of his coat.  
  
"Way to be festive, there, Toby," Charlie commented. The flecks of snow that hit  
the floor were melting, their crystalline patterns turning to dark blotches  
against the carpet. "Did you see the tree lighting?"  
  
"I did not," Toby replied, slowly picking up a pencil. He ran it between his  
fingers. "I did not see the official lighting. Nor did I see the second, third,  
or however many times Gus flipped the switch."  
  
"It really was cute."  
  
"It really is not my thing."  
  
Charlie's brow furrowed. "I can't help but notice that not many things are." He  
shrugged deeper into his coat.  
  
Toby stared at him. Was he sniffing the lapel? "Charlie, what the hell...?"  
  
"You didn't watch. She was wearing my coat."  
  
Even though he hadn't watched the event, Toby knew exactly who Charlie was  
talking about. It was much more entertaining to string Charlie along. "Mrs.  
Bartlet wore your coat?"  
  
"Toby."  
  
"Debbie? I'd check the pockets for contraband, if I were you." He knew his bland  
facade must be fading a little because Charlie started to laugh. "Was it a step  
in the right direction?"  
  
"How the hell do I know?" Charlie sighed. "I thought we were headed in the right  
direction before, but it got derailed."  
  
"Hey, Sir Walter Raleigh, don't mix your metaphors," Toby growled, but he was  
glad for Charlie, who'd taken Zoey's retreat to New Hampshire almost as hard as  
the abduction itself. He waved Charlie away. "Go spread your cheer somewhere  
else. I have important stuff to do."  
  
"Yeah." Charlie took a step away from the door, not far enough away to break up  
the conversation. "Hey, Toby, you doing anything for the holidays?"  
  
This was the topic he'd most wanted to avoid. "Not much," he said as mildly as  
he could.  
  
"Spending time with the twins?"  
  
He couldn't stop the twitch in his lower eyelid, the one that came when he was  
almost too tired to conceal his emotions. "Andi's taking them to her parents' in  
upstate New York. For their first Christmas."  
  
And there it was.  
  
Charlie's expression sobered. He was too polite to say "that's too bad" or any  
of the other platitudes Toby knew he'd be hearing in days to come. Instead,  
Charlie just nodded and wished him good night.  
  
Toby could see him sniffing his coat again as he rounded the corner.  
  
***  
  
The shadow was so distinctive that Toby didn't bother to look up. "Come in or  
don't come in, Josh, but don't hover."  
  
"How'd you know it was me?"  
  
Easy. No one else leaned into the doorway at quite that angle. Besides, Josh  
always took a sharp breath before launching into whatever was on his mind. "I  
have extraordinary powers of perception. What do you need?"  
  
"Nothing." Too casual, too tentative. Josh had held on to his job by a hair, and  
even after the triumph with the budget, he was still unsure of his footing, even  
around Toby and C.J. On any other night, Toby might have succumbed to the  
fraternal tug he felt toward Josh - but this wasn't any other night.  
  
He folded his hands together and looked at Josh. "Then, to what do I owe the  
honor of this visit?"  
  
Josh cocked his head to one side, his jaw muscles working. "Hey, you really  
emptied Will's office out without telling him?"  
  
"Josh."  
  
"You want to go get a drink or something?"  
  
Startled by the non-sequitur, Toby leaned back in his chair and looked hard at  
Josh. He mused that Josh was always teetering on the edge of a precipice for one  
reason or another - not so much that he was a thrill-seeker but rather that he  
just didn't understand the difference between taking risks and being, for want  
of a better word, an idiot.  
  
Usually, when Josh was about to do something particularly dangerous, he got  
twitchy. Toby glanced up and saw that Josh's whole body radiated pent-up energy.  
The steamroller analogy might be good, or the one about a five-year-old on a  
sugar high. Whatever the description, Josh was suiting up for something  
guaranteed to give Toby's blood pressure a reason to spike.  
  
"What's going on, Josh?" he asked, hoping that the dull throbbing behind his  
temples wasn't going to turn into a full-blown headache.  
  
Josh walked up to Toby's desk and took a box out of his jacket pocket. His hands  
shook a little as he set it down. "Open it," he said softly.  
  
The box was too short to contain a snake, so Toby lifted the lid. Inside was a  
gold mesh bracelet with an ornate antique clasp.  
  
Please, God, let him have gotten this for his mother. Toby looked up at Josh and  
blinked rapidly. "Why, Josh, this is so sudden," he said.  
  
Josh shot him a rueful smile. "Funny. I bought this from that...tea and antique  
place we took C.J. on her birthday. You know, when she made us eat those weird  
girly sandwiches with the cucumbers."  
  
Please, God, let him have gotten this for C.J. "You ate seven of those girly  
sandwiches, if I recall correctly. Two of them you were supposed to bring back  
for Donna, but you ate them in the taxi on the way back." He kept eye contact  
with Josh, almost pleading with him to deny this thing Toby had been dreading  
since the first campaign.  
  
Josh must have recognized Toby's intent, because he softened his voice when he  
said, "I'm making it up to her."  
  
Thanks a lot, God. We're going to have a chat later, You and I.  
  
"Josh." It came out as a sigh. "Have you thought about this?"  
  
"Yes," Josh said, lifting his chin.  
  
"I mean, really, really thought about this?"  
  
Josh put his hands on the desk and leaned over. "Yes," he repeated in the tone  
that had brought world leaders to their knees, the same tone he had used when he  
said he'd be out of the hospital in two weeks, even after the doctors had told  
him four. It was the tone that had cost this administration a Senate seat, but  
had also told the President of the United States to take a triumphant walk away  
from the Capitol Building.  
  
In his heart, Toby admired Josh's tenacity even when it was about to cause  
nightmares for everyone concerned. "Okay, then," he said, closing the box and  
handing it back to Josh.  
  
"Thanks." Josh fingered the box for a moment, then put it back in his pocket.  
"Hey, what are you and Andi going to do during the holidays?"  
  
"I'm spending the first weekend of Hanukkah with David and my dad. Thank you for  
that, by the way," Toby added, because it had been Josh who had engineered that  
bittersweet reunion.  
  
"Molly and Huck--"  
  
"Will be with Andi and her parents."  
  
Josh's mercurial face showed everything he was feeling. His eyes darkened and  
his dimples disappeared. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "It's not...it's not fair."  
  
"No. It's also not the way I envisioned things at this point, considering where  
we were last year."  
  
Josh pressed his lips together and nodded. Point taken. He tapped his fingers on  
Toby's desk, then stood up and jerked his thumb at the door. "You sure you don't  
want a drink?" he asked.  
  
You can't fix this, Josh, Toby wanted to tell him, but instead he smiled  
slightly and said, "Tomorrow night."  
  
He looked down at his papers so he wouldn't have to see the pity in Josh's eyes.  
  
***  
  
"Do you have a moment?"  
  
Toby was on his feet before his brain was fully engaged. He came out from behind  
his desk and offered the President a seat. "I thought you were at dinner, sir."  
  
"One time or another this evening, we've all been at dinner. Just not all in the  
same room at the same moment. And I'm not entirely sure what it was we were  
supposed to be eating, because I never saw any of it. Rumor has it that it was  
baked ham." Bartlet glanced around Toby's office. "You got any food in here? I  
think I ate an apple about two hours ago."  
  
The man never ceased to amaze Toby, who motioned toward a can of mixed nuts  
someone had left in his office a few days earlier. Here was the leader of the  
free world, mooching snacks from a man who drove him crazy while bearing a  
bottle of extremely good scotch and two glasses.  
  
Bartlet set his offering down on Toby's desk. His wedding ring glinted as he  
removed the wrapping from the cap and opened the bottle. "I'd planned to slip  
away for a bit and bring you something to eat along with this, but Ellie and  
Abbey are in the kitchen talking about, I don't know, something really revolting  
having to do with viruses and their effect on living tissue." He poured a glass  
for Toby and pushed it toward him. "Besides, we allegedly had ham."  
  
Toby smirked. He'd eaten bacon and eggs alongside the President more than once  
on the campaign trail, but there was this weird little fiction going on between  
them anyway. "Thank you for your consideration, sir," he said, accepting the  
glass with a nod and waiting for Bartlet to pour his own drink.  
  
They toasted silently and took slow, appreciative sips. It was a smooth, elegant  
drink that warmed, rather than burned, as it went down, leaving a pleasant buzz  
in its wake. Toby put the glass down on his desk and wrapped his hands around  
it. "What can I do for you?" he asked.  
  
"Accept my apology."  
  
Well. He hadn't expected that. He took one hand away from the glass and combed  
his fingers through his beard. "For...?"  
  
Shaking his head, Bartlet waved one hand in the air. "For the thing this  
afternoon, when I said you'd be the one to put me out of my misery. It was  
supposed to be a joke, only it came out cruel."  
  
"I didn't--"  
  
"Oh, cut the crap, Toby, I saw that look you gave me." Bartlet took another sip  
of his drink, staring Toby down with those keen eyes. "Like I ran over your  
dog."  
  
It had been like a sharp blow to the gut, actually, and Toby knew that he'd  
failed to school his features for those first few seconds. "You made it sound as  
if it'd be something I'd enjoy, sir."  
  
"God knows there are days when I could gleefully take you outside and..."  
Bartlet let the attempt at humor remain where it fell. "Anyway. I'm sorry," he  
continued in a soft, sad voice.  
  
"Thank you," Toby replied, just as softly.  
  
They drank in silence for a while, the way they sometimes did on slow evenings  
after a late meeting. Toby glanced at Bartlet, who was picking through the nuts  
and and popping the almonds into his mouth. After a few minutes, Bartlet leaned  
forward in his chair. "I hear the tree lighting ceremony wasn't to your liking."  
  
"I wouldn't say that, sir," Toby answered evenly. "I can't comment on it because  
I didn't see it."  
  
"Yeah." He took another drink before setting the glass aside. "You've never been  
too keen on decking the halls unless it was to give Mandy something to do or  
keep us from calling you Ebenezer Ziegler. Although, to be fair, sometimes this  
season produces a lack of 'joy to the world' anywhere in the building."  
  
"Because of Leo and the hearings," Toby supplied. The compassionate look Bartlet  
gave him let the words "and Josh" remain acknowledged but unspoken.  
  
"Anyway," the President continued, "you seem particularly unfestive - is that a  
word?"  
  
Toby shrugged. "If you want it to be."  
  
"Excellent. You seem particularly unfestive this year. And, apart from my faux  
pas earlier in the day, I was wondering if there's a reason."  
  
Toby mulled over some answers he might be able to give. For starters, Sam left.  
Will bailed. He winced at the accidental pun, even though he hadn't said it  
aloud. He opened his mouth to make a joke, but something in Bartlet's expression  
made him stop. Made him tell the truth.  
  
"Mr. President, the White House is a symbol for everyone in the country. Our  
citizens look at this building as something that belongs to them, a place where  
they - we - all belong." He paused to collect his thoughts, and for another  
drink. "Eleven months out of the year, this is my house."  
  
"It's your house all the time, Toby," Bartlet said, putting his hand over his  
heart. "I wouldn't be here without you."  
  
I love him so much, Leo had said, and Toby knew exactly why. "That's...that's  
very kind of you, sir. But when the White House becomes a symbol of  
Christianity, then it's not my house anymore. It's not my...home."  
  
"It's just some lights on a tree. No one's putting a giant electric cross on the  
lawn."  
  
"I've heard the 'seasonal' and 'neutral' arguments before, Mr. President, and if  
I may be so bold--"  
  
"I know of no way to stop you," Bartlet said with a mock roll of his eyes, but  
Toby knew he was still listening intently.  
  
"If you waited until January to light it up, then I'd say it was seasonal. And  
you and I both know it's not neutral."  
  
"No." Bartlet shook his head. "It's not." He leaned back in the chair and  
crossed his legs. "I'm sorry about that, too." The high sound of little bells  
chimed outside the office. "Is an angel getting its wings?"  
  
"No, but Ginger is getting her coat." Toby nodded at her through the window, and  
she came to the door of the office to greet them.  
  
She smiled at Bartlet, still a little shy even after all this time. A crystal  
tree winked from the lapel of her coat. "It's nice to see you, Mr. President.  
Toby, is there anything you need?"  
  
"No. Thanks. See you tomorrow."  
  
"See you tomorrow - and don't forget the picture. Good night, Mr. President."  
  
"Have a good night, Ginger," the President replied. He watched Ginger give a  
last wide-eyed look at the sign as she left the bullpen. "I think she's still  
scared of you."  
  
"She's scared of you. Me, she just doesn't get."  
  
"What's the picture she's talking about?" Toby glanced at the frame lying  
face-down on his desk. He picked it up, turned it over, and set it down again.  
"God, Toby, they're gorgeous. Why haven't you put this up on your wall? I can  
have Charlie bring us a hammer, and we can take care of it right now." He  
paused, looking from the picture to Toby with understanding dawning in his eyes.  
"Oh."  
  
Andi had sent him the photo as a sort of apology for taking the twins away for a  
month. Huck and Molly were dressed in little green velvet outfits. They were  
also sitting on the knees of a department store Santa Claus.  
  
Toby flashed a brief smile. "They're not mine this time of year, either."  
  
They looked at one another without speaking for a while. It was C.J. who broke  
the silence when she entered without knocking. "Good evening, Mr. President. If  
I'm interrupting..."  
  
"Not at all, Claudia Jean. We were just talking about our children." Bartlet  
reached out and put his hand on Toby's arm, squeezing slightly. "There are  
times, my friend, when all of us wonder if our children are truly ours."  
  
C.J. flinched. "If you'll excuse me, I left my...thing. In my office. I'll be  
back in a minute." She left as quickly as she had come in, leaving Bartlet to  
stare at Toby with his eyebrows raised.  
  
"Was it something I said?" he asked.  
  
"Not intentionally." Toby sighed and ran his hand over his forehead. "You know  
her dad has Alzheimer's, right?" Bartlet nodded. "He's...it's gotten really bad.  
He doesn't recognize her voice, doesn't remember her even when she tells him who  
she is. So all this talk about the situation between the A.G. and Oregon - it  
hits pretty close to home."  
  
Hanging his head, Bartlet groaned. "I shouldn't be allowed to talk to my staff  
without a briefing."  
  
"That's a good point, sir, but you'd need another staff to brief you, and then  
you wouldn't know about that staff so you'd need..." He trailed off, waiting for  
Bartlet to acknowledge his expiation. "Anyway. It's a little touchy for her, but  
she'll be okay."  
  
"You see to that," Bartlet said, looking up again to catch Toby's gaze. He  
opened his mouth to say something else, but C.J. was walking back into the  
office, looking pale but composed. Bartlet rose and offered her his seat.  
"Toby's got some nice scotch, there, C.J. Feel free to deplete his stock."  
  
She smiled, the heart-melting one that followed her sorrows as surely as a  
rainbow came after a storm. "Is there, you know, a clean glass, or do I drink  
after you?"  
  
"The alcohol content in there will kill any Presidential germs I might leave  
lying about. And with that, I must leave you and go forage in the refrigerator  
for leftover ham." He put the glass in C.J.'s hand, his fingers lingering  
against hers for a moment. "C.J., have a good night. You too, Toby."  
  
C.J. put her elbows on Toby's desk and leaned her cheek against her hand. "What  
was that about?"  
  
"Nothing," Toby said mildly, but he could feel a guilty flush rising in his  
cheeks. Too bad his beard didn't extend that far.  
  
"You told him about my dad, didn't you?"  
  
"Hey, he knew most of it already." That didn't stop C.J. from reaching across  
the desk and thumping him on the head. "Ow."  
  
"I don't need him feeling sorry for me," C.J. continued, finger pointing at Toby  
and accusation flashing in her eyes. "Or you, for that matter. But especially  
not him. What if he talks to Abbey?"  
  
"If he talks to Abbey, it'll be a little Christmas Miracle, right here in the  
White House." He was talking far too loudly, so he lowered his voice and, he  
hoped, his blood pressure. "He didn't mean to hurt you. It makes him crazy when  
he does that, so I told him how to avoid it. It's not about wanting him to pity  
you." He looked down at his legal pad and pretended to write on it. "God knows,  
I don't."  
  
"Shut up and pour me a germicidal drink," C.J. grumbled, but her expression  
softened as Toby poured two fingers into the glass and returned to his writing.  
C.J. sniffed the scotch before taking a sip. Her eyes watered, but she smiled.  
"Ooh. Why don't we have this more often?"  
  
"Because it costs just slightly less than my laptop."  
  
"Good point." She leaned back, holding the glass and looking down into it. "Hey,  
speaking of making someone crazy, Donna says that Josh is acting 'squirrely.'  
Know anything about that?"  
  
Right here, at the intersection of Press Secretary and Communications Director,  
there was going to be a ten-car pileup. Toby grimaced. "If he's developing a  
bushy tail or has taken up with a moose--"  
  
"Toby." C.J.'s eyes narrowed as she tilted her head to one side. "How much  
information are you withholding from me, and why?"  
  
"Not much, and because it's private." He tapped the eraser on the pad, looking  
down in surprise at the circles he'd just doodled.  
  
"Josh told you something in private that you can't share with me?" C.J.'s alarm  
wasn't feigned. "Seriously? Is he sick? Is he having panic attacks? Because,  
after the way Leo pushed him around--"  
  
"Josh is fine," Toby assured her, although he was far from sanguine about it,  
himself. "His mental state is...relatively unimpaired."  
  
C.J. put her hand over her heart. "Oh, thank God. Because I couldn't do a repeat  
of that Christmas, you know? And neither could Donna. What she went through..."  
  
Toby let the nickel drop. C.J. froze; even her mouth stayed open for several  
seconds.  
  
"C.J., you're drooling a little out of the right side," Toby murmured.  
  
"How bad is it?" she asked, groaning.  
  
"Nothing's happened yet. He bought her something expensive and showed it to me,  
he hasn't given it to her yet, nothing's happened. Yet." He rubbed his forehead  
again, willing the throbbing behind his eyes to go away.  
  
"But it will. This doesn't worry you?"  
  
He put the pencil down and poured more scotch into her glass. "It does, but not  
because I think it'll be a press nightmare when a fortysomething White House  
official has an affair with his willowy, blonde assistant."  
  
C.J. took the glass, raised it to Toby, and swallowed half the contents in one  
gulp. "Somehow it sounds even more sordid when you say it. How can that not  
scare you?"  
  
"Because that's not what I think will happen."  
  
It took another moment for C.J. to process the underlying meaning. "You think  
she'll turn him down? Seriously?"  
  
"I think she'll be more afraid of this than you or I, or certainly Josh, ever  
could be. I think she'll be so terrified that she'll want to work for Angela, or  
maybe leave the White House altogether." He watched as sympathetic tears pooled  
in C.J.'s eyes. One of the many, many things he adored about her was that she  
could always find room in her heart for a friend's suffering. "Donna Moss is not  
a stupid woman," he added, giving C.J. time to compose herself. "She's going to  
understand what Josh does not - again - and she's going to save him."  
  
"Again." C.J. closed her eyes, wiping away a tear that was trailing down her  
cheek. "Josh won't see it coming. And I know you don't believe this, but  
underneath that brash exterior is a very fragile heart."  
  
"I believe it," he said. "That's why I'm telling you in advance that there may  
be a problem in the very near future."  
  
C.J. buried her face in her hands. "This could shatter him, Toby." Her words  
were muffled.  
  
Toby got up quickly and shut the door before crossing over to C.J.'s chair. He  
sat on his heels and took her hand between his. "Then we'll just have to make  
sure we're there to pick up the pieces."  
  
C.J. wasn't crying. He could count on his fingers the number of times he'd seen  
her weep openly, although he knew she sometimes let herself rail when she was  
out of sight of her surrogate family. She'd engaged in hilarious flirtation  
games with Sam, and had teased Charlie like a big sister, and had sometimes been  
a cherished stand-in for the daughters of two great men. Josh, however, was one  
of the few people C.J. genuinely loved, someone she loved from that chamber of  
her heart she set aside for the people who challenged her.  
  
Toby's feelings were less clearly delineated, but he was hurting in advance for  
the pain that two people he admired - Donna, in so many ways, more than Josh -  
were about to experience. He peered up into C.J.'s sorrowful face. She sighed  
and cupped Toby's cheek with her free hand. "So, how was your day?" she  
whispered, her breath warm and laced with scotch.  
  
He shrugged, patting her hand before letting go and moving to the sofa. "I've  
had worse."  
  
"Me, too." She began to fidget, her long fingers moving things around on his  
desk. The picture frame gleamed as she turned it over and looked down at the  
photo. "They are getting so big," she commented, smiling. "I think Molly looks  
like you more than Huck does, but he's got those big, brown eyes."  
  
"At least they have something of my heritage in them," he said, his heart  
beating faster as he wished he had filtered the words through his brain before  
letting them out of his mouth.  
  
C.J. nodded. "Santa Claus and green velvet, and a trip to see the Very Gentile  
Grandparents. No wonder you've been such a Scrooge, what with evicting Will and  
putting up that weird sign and being generally cranky."  
  
"They're slipping away from me. They barely got here, and already I'm being  
chipped out of their lives, bit by little bit. While their pariah of a dad is  
working in a supposedly secular surrounding that's covered in Christian symbols,  
they'll be with the Wyatts in their 'country house' with, you know, sixteen  
bedrooms, and servants and silverware that have both been in the family for  
generations. There'll be a tree that's even taller than the one you had murdered  
for your office, and under that tree will be more presents than Andi and I got  
for our wedding. For each child. Besides, there'll be Midnight Mass  
and...and...wassail."  
  
C.J. put her hand over her mouth, but not in time to stifle the laugh that  
echoed through the office. "Wassail? They're six months old."  
  
"Wassail," he insisted, "spooned from sterling silver pap bowls into their tiny  
Gentile mouths."  
  
C.J.'s laugh was so infectious, and the mental picture he was painting was so  
absurd, that he couldn't help but chuckle along with her. She stood up, towering  
over him even in low heels, and threw her arms around his neck. "They're as much  
a part of you as they are of Andi. Right now they're babies and they need their  
mother pretty much all the time. But who do you think they're going to go to  
when Huck's toy train breaks, or when Molly wants to know how a clock works?"  
  
"Their Uncle David, the Astronaut," Toby muttered, mentally cursing his younger  
brother for his grand career. "Or any of their three assorted schoolteacher  
aunts."  
  
"And what else are their aunts and uncle?" C.J. purred in his ear.  
  
He batted her away and tried to look annoyed. "Pains in the ass, all four of  
them."  
  
"And what else?" C.J. demanded, staring him down.  
  
Sighing, he wriggled out of her embrace. "Jews, in various states of  
observance."  
  
"And even though Uncle David is out of this world, what is Daddy?"  
  
"A schlep. Ow," he added as C.J. punched him in the upper arm with all the skill  
of a woman who'd had three older brothers. "The White House Communications  
Director."  
  
"And?" C.J. insisted. She stretched, her long arms twisting up toward the  
ceiling like a havdalah candle. When Toby didn't answer, she sidled up to him  
and slipped her arm around his waist. "A Jew."  
  
"A Jew who'll be unemployed by the time they're in pre-kindergarten. A Jew  
who'll turn 65 before they graduate high school. And who hasn't set foot in a  
synagogue in six months except for his son's bris."  
  
"You're their father. And it doesn't matter how fram you are."  
  
He stared at her, moistening his lips with the tip of his tongue. "Fram? The  
hell, C.J.?"  
  
"Doesn't it mean pious?"  
  
"It doesn't mean anything. It's a non-word. Try 'frum.'"  
  
"Whatever," C.J. said, grabbing Toby by the arm and pulling him out into the  
bullpen. "It's the middle of the night, the President of the United States has  
pretty much told you to get lost, and the scotch is starting to wear off. Let's  
go." She shifted impatiently from foot to foot as Toby turned out the lights and  
locked the door. "Hey, you know what you get when you rob an Orthodox  
synagogue?"  
  
Toby put the keys in his pocket and leaned against the door. "The...fury of the  
Lord?"  
  
"Nah. The loot of the frum."  
  
That did it. He pulled her in for a hug, waiting until she bent over and then  
planting a kiss on her forehead.  
  
"What was that for?" C.J. asked, her eyes bright as stars.  
  
For everything, he couldn't tell her. For the way her legs came into the room  
five minutes before the rest of her. For the promises in that smoky smile. For  
not letting him brood. He crafted words spoken by the President of the United  
States, yet he could not come up with even one for her.  
  
He didn't need one. C.J. ruffled his hair, her warm fingers drifting down to his  
nape. "Let's make it a short night. I need to come in early, and I really should  
call my dad first thing when I get here."  
  
No syringe in the nightstand for Talmidge Cregg, not yet, not while there was  
hope that he'd light up one more time at the sight of his little girl. Toby  
ached for him and C.J. alike. He slid his arm around her waist as they walked  
toward the lobby together. "I'll be here," he murmured, and the nudge of C.J.'s  
shoulder against his told him he'd found the right words at last.  
  
  
***   
END   
***  
  
With thanks, as always, to Ria for line-by-line beta reading. Also to  
bartletforamerica.org for the correct spelling of "Talmidge."  
  
Feedback is welcome at marguerite@swbell.net.  
  
Back to West Wing. 


End file.
